


Kith and Kin

by whiskeyneat



Series: Rune [1]
Category: Brave (2012), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Dark, Drama, F/M, Fusion, Fusion pairings, Picts, Romance, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyneat/pseuds/whiskeyneat
Summary: Act I: in which Merida becomes an unwitting pawn in the greatest game; meets a Night Fury, a marked man, and a Northern captive; uncovers enemies she didn't she know she had, and speaks a lot of dialect. This is the lighter beginning to what will prove to be a very bloodsoaked business indeed. But no one ever said a royal coup would be easy. **UPDATES SPORADICALLY**





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act I: in which Merida becomes an unwitting pawn in the greatest game; meets a Night Fury, a marked man, and a Northern captive; uncovers enemies she didn't she know she had, and speaks a lot of dialect. This is the lighter beginning to what will prove to be a very bloodsoaked business indeed. But no one ever said a royal coup would be easy.

  **:: ACT I ::**

 

 **kith** n. Old English _cȳth_ , of Germanic origin;

related to _couth_. The original senses were ‘knowledge,’

‘ _one's native land’._

 **kin** n. _one's tribe, one's clan_

 

 

**Prologue  
**

 

 "Don't look back,” he said.

 

Years later, telling the tale to my eldest granddaughter, I would understand that he'd been trying to give me a gift – but I was yet a girl then, and a headstrong one at that.

 

I tore myself out of his arms and ran to the rail, screaming the into the wind. Only the wind answered, carrying the stink of charred flesh with it. I would as liefer had thrown myself over and swum 'tween Scylla and Charybdis to save both kith and kin, but he held me fast and would not let me go 'til the plume of smoke had dipped below the horizon. It was then that my grief overtook me, and I crumpled...

 

And knew only the darkness.

 


	2. Raidho (Journey)

_She wakes in a half-darkened room, slowly rocking back and forth_ to consciousness. Everything hurts, and she leans over the side of the bunk with a sudden moan, dry heaving over the planks of the floor.

 

"You're awake." Her older brother (by virtue of only five minutes) sits on the edge of her bunk, and with a shock, she realizes his eyes are wet. Has he been _crying_? "Thank Odin, you're awake."

 

He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, grinning weakly at her. "Don't ever scare me like that again." Clasping her by the shoulders, Tuffnut pulls her into a gentle embrace.

 

(Why? Is she going to break?)

 

(Maybe. Freyja, she hurts in places she didn't even know _could_ hurt.)

 

She puts a hand up on her head, and then has to lay back down right away. "What happened?" She wets her lips with her tongue and tastes copper. The room smells of blood, and when she turns her head she can see that the floor is littered with stained bandages. Her stomach churns.

 

"You don't remember?" Tuffnut isn't wearing his helmet. Without it, he looks like a little boy again, but his pale eyes are the eyes of a man who has seen battle, who has gone a-Viking and lived to tell the tale. "Do you remember anything?"

 

She closes her eyes. There is a throbbing behind her eyes that makes her want to sleep and sleep, but all she can smell is blood and death, and in her head she hears the call of Odin's ravens.

 

( _Thought... and Memory_.)

 

"Skotland."

 

(That cursed place.)

 

She bolts upwards, clutching at Tuffnut's hands. "Barf and Belch? Astrid? Hiccup? Snotlout and Fishlegs?"

 

Tuffnut snorts, brushing her hair from her face, a tender gesture that unnerves her more than she cares to admit. "It's good to know you have your priorities in order, sister."

 

"Shut up," she growls, batting his hands away. "I don't need you to treat me like a _girl_. I'm one of Freyja's own, a proper Valkyrie."

 

There is that look again. The only way to describe it is... _haunted_. She does not know why she shudders all over, why she is suddenly cold.

 

A knock on the door reverberates through the small space, causing the knife behind her eyes to stab her temples. Ruffnut bites her lip. Shield maidens aren't supposed to cry. But Freyja would understand, she thinks.

 

(It sounds like spears beating on shields, like the beat of war drums, like the _úlfheðnar's_ howl.)

 

( _Wolfskin_ , they call them. Like the Bearskin, the berserker.)

 

(Or should it be _Dragon_ skin now?)

 

The knock comes again, sending a spear of light between her eyes, and with a cry of terror she watches as Tuffnut and the room begin to fade, the last vision of her brother replaced by the pulsating, dancing lights that flicker across the dark sky.

 

XxX

 

Everything hurts. Her mouth feels like dry cotton wool, and when she tries to lift her head she finds she has been collared like a dog, a thick rope around her neck, tying her to a post. She licks her bottom lip, wincing; there is a film across her left eye, dark and red.

 

(Something terrible has happened. But what?)

 

Ruffnut cannot think clearly for the pounding between her ears. When she closes her eyes, she repeats Tuffnut's name over and over in litany, trying to draw him back to her, so that he will find her.

 

Aren't they twins? Shouldn't they have special instincts to save one another when they find themselves in trouble?

 

(She wishes she could believe that.)

 

Her mother often told the story of her own twin's penchant for trouble as she plaited Ruffnut's hair. She wishes more than anything that she had never stopped listening to her mother's advice, had never thought she knew better. It has been a long time since she has thought of her dead mother, long gone through Helheim's gates, beyond the realms of mortal knowing.

 

If she had listened when she became a woman, if she had accepted her mother's distaff along with taking up a sword, if, if, if. The regret curdles in her gut. If she had taken up the spindle and the distaff, would she now remember how to bring on the dreams? When she grasps at the memories, they slither away from her, like water on a dragon's underbelly. Something about a spindle and a distaff and a magic bindrune that opens the doors between worlds.

 

"{Wake up.}"

 

A shaft of weak light pours down from above and a man clomps down the ladder, a cup of water in his hand. He throws it on her, and laughs, showing brown stumps where his teeth ought to be. No wonder she thought she was dreaming — she is in a hole under somebody's house, amongst the drying herbs and jugs of ale.

 

He jumps down from the last rung, aiming a boot at her side, and she flinches away from it, but it not fast enough. She tastes blood, thick and coppery in her mouth where she's bitten her cheek.

 

She could take him. He is a big man, running to fat, with greasy red hair and a leer on his face. "{The chief wants to talk tae ye, but not until I've had ma fun, lassie.}” Even if she cannot understand his language, she can read the dark intent in his eyes.

 

He licks his lips, drawing out his dirk, and gestures for her to open her legs. When she does not respond, he falls on her, his knife at her throat, forcing her knees apart, and she fights him with everything in her.

 

(It doesn't matter how hard she fights, in the end.)

 

But Ruffnut Thorston is nothing if not clever. She bites his earlobe, tearing it from the side of his head, and as he roars in pain she takes advantage of his distraction to slam the palm of her hand into his nostrils, driving the bone of his nose upwards and into his brain. He slumps atop of her with a gout of blood from his nose and ears, his eyes still wide and surprised.

 

She shoves him off of her, head buzzing. _She has killed a man._ Just like that, she has killed him, and he is lying on the floor, staring up at nothing, his lifeblood all over the dirty rushes. She finds that she is shaking, and fumbles for the dirk. It is just a shade too far for her fingers to reach, and the rope cuts into her neck, the rough strands catching at the tender, open skin. She screams, clawing at it with her fingers, sticky with hot blood. Her nails are rough and torn, and they find no purchase on the rough strands.

 

Instinctively, she reaches for her dragon tooth necklace, and to feel it between her breasts fills her with a rush of overwhelming relief. With a sob, she begins scraping the sharp point on the rope at her neck. The dead man stares up at her in reproach, his eyes bulging.

 

When she finally stands, the room spins, and she leans against the wall, breathing heavily. When she is gone from here, she will bathe every day for a week, she will apologize to everyone she's ever harmed, she will put down her sword and spear and take up _seidr_ instead. Freyja must be displeased with her, she must be angry for something Ruffnut has done. She racks her brain for the reason, and comes back empty-handed.

 

When her dizzy spell has passed, she scrubs his stink from her thighs with a handful of straw. How many times has he had her, in her unconscious state?

 

(It does not bear thinking of.)

 

Instead of thinking, she busies herself with her hair. It is greasy and lank, but she is able to pin it up, out of her eyes. Her helmet is gone, but she still has her furs and her boots. At least there is that — it was July when she left Berk, and now she can see her breath.

 

How long has she lain here, in this stinking outbuilding? Tuffnut and the others must be looking for her, they must be stricken with grief. Tuffnut must know she isn't dead, why else would she have had that strange dream?

 

(Unless _this_ is the dream, and _that_ is reality.)

 

She pinches herself ferociously, drawing blood with her nails. Nothing happens. So she screams and screams, and spits on the dead man's body for good measure. When at last she has screamed out every bit of disbelief and rage, she climbs up the ladder.

 

XxX

 

With the strength of ten Berserkers, Ruffnut yanks open the front door and falls to her knees in the wet gray light. If she had been able to see anything besides the water spring in that moment, she would have noticed a tall man, not more than twenty, dark of hair and hard of mouth; his hand on his sword pommel as he emerged on his horse from the swirling fog.

 

As it is, she hears nothing but the sweet trickle of water from the spring, sees nothing but the iron cauldron, tastes and feels nothing but the glacial water as she dunks her head in, drinking and drinking as though she is an animal. _Little beast,_ her brother calls her, when no one else is close enough to hear the affection in his voice.

 

The man is joined by several other men on horseback, all wearing the same plaid as he. Although he is the younger, when he holds up a hand, they rein in their horses. He jumps from his horse, and strides softly towards Ruffnut, hide boots silent on the damp grass.

 

Ruffnut cups her hands, sipping the water in her hands, slowly — the welt on her throat burns, and the adrenaline is slowly ebbing away from her body, leaving her weak. She feels sordid and scared, she longs for her brother's presence at her side. A shadow ripples across the water, and she springs to her haunches, brandishing the dragon tooth in her hand, her eyes wild.

 

His eyebrows go up, though he does not leap back. She has startled him — good. He is tall, with wild dark hair that brushes his shoulders, and eyes as blue as the paint that spirals all down his right shoulder and arm. He stares at her, as though she is a _jötunn_ out of an old tale.

 

"Not sae fast, Northman. Where is Duncan?" The sword sings as he pulls the blade from his scabbard, circling her.

 

He is a fool, Ruffnut thinks. She only has a tooth to defend herself, but isn't she the daughter of a _v_ _ö_ _lva_? Isn't she a shield maiden of Berk? She bares her teeth.

 

"By Macha's fire, yer a woman!" He sounds so impressed that she almost forgives him for the way he's been butchering her language. Comprehension dawns over his features as he takes in the gore splattered all over her. "Ye've killed Duncan!"

 

The men behind him begin to circle in, but he puts his hand up again, to stay them. Their anger crackles in the air, sharp and dangerous. If she is not careful it will strike her like Thor's hammer, and she will never see Tuffnut or her friends again.

 

(She has never known how to be _careful_. Careless, maybe.)

 

Ruffnut spits on the ground, just missing his boot. When she raises her eyes to meet his, his face is hard, with nary a kindness. "No one rapes Ruffnut Thorston and gets away with it, Painted Man."

 

His face softens, and he holds out his hand, his eyes locked on hers. “Give me the tooth, Northwoman. I swear my men won't hurt ye, as long as ye come along quietly.”

 

“Are you the chief?” She will kneel to no painted men, chief or not. She conjures up Stoick the Vast inside her head. He would cleave this weakling in twain.

 

“Nae, but I am his son.” He steps closer, his sword at the ready. “Ma name is Drustan MacIntosh, an' I swear ye will have safe passage tae ma father's broch if ye give me that tooth. Come now, lass.”

 

Ruffnut looks up to the sky, willing Tuffnut to swoop down on Barf and Belch at the last minute and save her. At this point, she'd be happy to see Astrid or Hiccup, or even Snotlout. But the sky remains gray and grim, and beyond Drustan, there is only the fog and the angry men who would as soon throw her to the ground and hurt her than help her.

 

“You have ma word that Clan MacIntosh will no' harm ye, Ruffnut Thorston. On pain of death.” Drustan sheathes his sword, hanging her dragon tooth necklace around his own neck. He whistles to the horse, and then he puts her on it, climbing up to sit in front her. “Hold on tae me so ye don't fall off,” Drustan MacIntosh instructs her, whirling the horse and spurring it into a gallop.

 

She doesn't have to be told twice.

 

XxX

 

Ruffnut waits for Drustan to return. He has been with his father for what feels like ages, although she knows it cannot have been more than half an hour. She needs a bath, her clothes are stuck to her skin and she reeks of her captor's blood. Her head is throbbing, which isn't helped by all the shouting inside the room.

 

When Drustan finally emerges, his face is like thunder. “Ruffnut.” He bows to her, helping her up. His eyes search her face. “Ye'd better come in. Do ye want me tae stay wi' ye?”

 

She lifts her chin, for she is as proud a Thorston girl as ever there was. “I can handle it.”

 

Once she's inside the room, however, she wants to take back her words. Drustan bows to his father, a wiry man with wild black hair and a full beard. Both of them are angry, and the air between the two of them is heavy, charged. The lord is eating dinner. There is a girl in his lap, with dark hair and a yellow dress. His hand is around her waist, and he is feeding her choice pieces of meat with his fingers. The girl is sharp nosed and has greedy eyes, her breasts pushed up so high that if she stood she'd probably fall over. Ruffnut thinks that the girl probably does a lot of purposeful falling over, landing with her legs spread.

 

Drustan nods to her, then stalks from the room.

 

"{Is this the Northern bitch?}" The girl says in a high, nasally tone. Ruffnut only catches a snatch or two of her words. _Northern_. _Bitch._ The tone is plain enough. The girl is jealous of her, and why shouldn't she be? Ruffnut knows she is not the beauty of Berk, or even the archipelago, but she has never cared much about her looks. She prefers to be known by her reputation as Berk's best trickster (better even than her brother).

 

“So you're the savage Northwoman who killed Duncan.” Lord MacIntosh stabs the haunch of venison with his knife viciously, pink blood running all over the serving platter. “A wee lass like you?”

 

“When a man rapes a free woman, he deserves what he gets.”

 

Lord MacIntosh pushes the girl from his lap, and she protests with a wet, open-mouthed kiss that involves entirely too much moaning for Ruffnut's tastes. He pats her bottom and she giggles, waving goodbye. "Am I to believe yer people treat their enemy captives any better?" With a scoff, he advances towards her, backing her up until she is pressed against the wall. "Ma son tells me ye are a shield maiden." His breath is hot on her face, and she glares up at him. "Ye were part of the raid along the coast two weeks ago. Why should I gi'e quarter to some bitch who slew some of ma best men? No answer?"

 

Grimly, she presses her lips together and does not reply. He will not have her secrets. If she had but a spindle, she would snip his life thread like a Norn. But she has nothing.

 

"Aye, that's what I thought." He grabs his cup from the table and takes a long pull of ale, studying her. She does not like the calculating gleam in his eyes, but there is little she can do — so far. "Weel enough fer a voyage, lassie?"

 

A voyage? But she needs to find the dragon. How else will she get back to Berk? "My name is Ruffnut," she says with her chin in the air. "And I am not your 'lassie'."

 

"Ye'll be whatever I say ye are," he says, slamming his cup down and causing her to jump. He pins her wrist to the wall with a grip like iron, tracing a pattern across it with the tip of his dirk. His breath is hot and sour on her face. "I'm nae fool, ye clarty hoor. I've seen how ma son makes sheep eyes at ye. I'll not hae a Norse bitch wi' a bastard in her belly like a dirk at ma throat. Nae, it's tae Dun Broch fer ye. Let the High King decide what tae do wi' ye, an' I'll wash ma hands o' it.”

 

**XxXxX**

 

**Historical notes:**

**Thrall** – Viking slaves. Thralls were the lowest class of workers in Scandinavian society. They were Northern Europeans brought into slavery due to debt, the losers of wars, captives, and the children of thralls. Thralls in Scandinavia had no rights and their living conditions were variable depending on the master. The thrall trade as the prize of plunder was a key part of the Viking economy.

 **Jötunn** _**–** _ ( pron. “YO-tun”) the jötunn are the giants of Norse mythology, as proud and fierce and as mighty as the Aesir and Vanir. _Jötunn_ comes from the Proto-Germanic _*etunaz_ and means “devourer.”

 **Huginn and Munnin** —Odin's ravens, called Thought & Memory.

 **Valkyries and Freyja** —Freyja is not a Valkyrie, but a Goddess of those who have been slain in battle. It is thought that the valkyries were corpse goddesses.

 **Seidr** —(pron. “SAY-der) pre-Christian Norse sorcery and shamanism, involving changing the threads of fate. “To do this, the practitioner, with ritual distaff in hand,[3] enters a trance (which could be accomplished through numerous means and travels in spirit throughout the Nine Worlds accomplishing his or her intended task.”

https://norse-mythology.org/concepts/seidr/

 **Norn** —Like the Greek Morai, which means “Fates”, the Norns spin a thread for the life of every living being—including the gods. Sometimes they are depicted as weaving the threads of life, but more often they simply spin. They are the ones who handle both time and fate, and thus hold the destiny of the universe in their hands.

 **Berserkers** – called “Bearskin” or “Wolfskin”, these warriors _became_ bears or wolves during trance and were terrifying on the field of battle. They were reported to wear the furs of bears and wolves, to bite their shields, and to go into such murderous rages that they could not tell friend from foe. It was said they had the strength of ten men, and that neither iron nor fire could touch them. We'll revisit them later.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is finally back! Are you as excited as I am? I hope so :) The reason it took so long is because I was stuck, also because my Hunger Games fic took over my brain, and I underestimated the amount of research I'd want to do for this. The other thing is that I currently have quite a few WIPs going right now, so the update schedule will reflect this.
> 
> This fic is an AU fusion(not a crossover), meaning it fuses both universes together – as if HTTYD and Brave are in the same world. Although both canon universes are historical fantasy I took some liberties with setting a time period since the fic is an AU anyway. Historical notes will be below. ~ Also, I haven't seen Once Upon a Time so any similarities to Merida's OUaT plot line, if they occur, are unintentional.
> 
> What else... oh. Originally this fic had an OC (Original Character) that played a pretty big supporting role, but it felt like the fic wasn't going anywhere with her in it so I scrapped her and brought Ruffnut in instead. I'm keeping quiet about the main pairings for now -- characters will have various romantic entanglements throughout the fic.


	3. Untie the Wind

Merida sits beside the window of the ladies' solar, watching the rain outside make a sodden mess of the courtyard. Any more of this, and the Games will have to be put off another week. 

 

From above, she can see the bright heads of Hamish, Hubert and Harris sneaking into the side door, their pockets surely filled with tadpoles to slip into the ale barrels. She feels her face break into a grin despite herself. What she wouldn't give to see her father's face when he's got a mouthful of pollywogs! The roar of merriment spills out into the courtyard for a small moment, then is gone. 

 

With a great, put-upon sigh, she returns to the embroidery in her lap. It is unfair. All she wants is to be riding Angus and yet she sits, forced to endure the jaw-clenching,  ear-splitting, off-key strumming of Wee Eilidh MacIntosh on her lyre. 

 

"By the banks o' fair Islay, I did send my love awaaaaaay..." One thing's for sure, this caterwauling is enough to send anyone away, let alone a lover. 

 

"I know the tune tae kill a thousand Dingwalls," Merida whispers to her mother, causing Elinor to slip a stitch and slap a hand over her mouth to mask a smile. 

 

"Merida!" Elinor is trying to appear stern, but Merida can tell she is amused all the same. Her eyes flick towards the Dowager Lady Dingwall, a tetchy old woman who takes offense at everything. Luckily, the old bat in question is half asleep near the fire, jerking upwards ever so often to put another stitch in a pair of holey breeks. 

 

Elinor rubs her temples, passing the tiny gown from her lap to Merida's. Her stitches are uneven in the pale light, and Merida touches her mother's shoulder with an expression of worry. It is not like Elinor to look so wan this early in the day -- usually it is evening when she is drooping from exhaustion. 

 

Merida is not looking forward to overseeing the night's feasting without her mother at her side, but it can't be helped. The midwife has already taken Merida aside twice to admonish her sternly -- wee bairns, apparently, take a toll on older mothers, and a good daughter should see this and be there every step of the way to provide all the assistance their mothers need. 

 

Merida has never been the domestic type. 

 

Yes, she wants to be on Angus' back more than ever now, she wants to ride and ride until she is no longer human, and fly away from her responsibilities. 

 

(Just for one day.)

 

As if she can read her daughter's mind, Elinor pats Merida's cheek and takes the gown back, beginning a row of woad blue spirals on the hem of the skirt. 

 

"He'll be a bonny wee bairn in that, milady," Eilidh pipes up shyly, having set her lyre down to take a sip of water. "My maither..." Her eyes are suddenly wet, but the girl goes on bravely, "She was workin' on such a gown, before..." Eilidh's words grow softer and softer before trailing off.

 

It is bad luck, Merida wants to say. Bad luck to speak of the dead woman to the pregnant queen. "Wheesht, Eilidh," she says, but it is too late.

 

"There was so much blood." Eilidh's voice is faint, yet her words echo like a thunderclap in the tiny room. 

 

"Och, the caterwaulin' is finally over!" Lady Dingwall announces, taking a gulp of ale and smacking her lips. No one has ever been so relived to hear the old woman speak. 

 

Elinor frowns. "Lady Dingwall, that's enough."

"But Mum," Merida begins, and Elinor silences her with a quick jerk of her head. Tears are pooling in Eilidh's eyes, and she drops the lyre, bobbing a slipshod curtesy to the queen before rushing from the room.

 

"A bad omen," Lady Dingwall smacks her lips and jabs her finger at Eilidh's retreating figure. "Mark ma words, milady, that one'll come tae a bad end." With relish, she stabs at the cloth in her hands. "Och! If yer too polite to say it, I'm not," she continues, her voice rising stridently above the rain. "Her maither must be rollin' in her grave! Not that I should say anything, but it's high time _someone_ \--"

 

"That's enough, I said." Elinor rises from her seat, not without some difficulty. "If you will pardon me, Lady Dingwall, I must have a lie down before dinner. Merida, please make sure our _guests_ have everything they need." With that, she swans from the room, as gracefully as an eight months pregnant woman can. 

 

* * *

 

 

Merida flies from the solar to the stables, barely pausing to snatch her cloak and some apples from the kitchens.

 

The sun does not break from the clouds until they are halfway across the hills, and were Merida to shade her eyes and glance upwards, she would see the watchful shadow eyeing her from the top of the falls. 

 

But she does not.

 

* * *

 

 

Afternoon finds Merida lying in the grass, nibbling on an apple and staring up at the clouds as they float across a blue and boundless sky. The air is so still here, broken only by the cry of the hawk, dipping and soaring above the high meadow. The bees drowse lazily in the heather, and Angus munches happily on shoots of late summer gorse, his tail flicking periodically. 

 

Until the scream. 

 

Merida sits bolt upright, her gaze drawn in the direction of the fort. "Angus, did ye hear that?" 

 

Angus snorts, tossing his head, and nudges Merida in the shoulder with his nose. He returns to his meal. The sky is as blue as ever, the clouds as slow, the waters as still. And yet... 

 

Without warning, all of the hairs on the back of Merida's neck stand on end as something long and black appears from a cloudbank, serpentine body blocking the rays of the sun. Merida shields her eyes, seeing the flick of a finned tail and the wingspan of a bigger serpent than she's ever seen in her life. 

 

 _Dragon_ , whispers her brain. And then it vanishes back into the clouds, and she is rubbing her eyes, certain she hasn't had enough sleep. 

 

(That is when she realizes that the screaming never stopped, that she's been hearing it all along.)

 

Angus is panicked and shaking when she runs to him, flinging herself onto the saddle. The clouds have drawn in, dark and cold. Angus is hesitant and decidedly uncooperative, and Merida struggles to turn the reins toward the direction of the screams. 

 

"It's all right, Angus!" She shouts against the fury of the sky. "We have to help!" 

 

Angus, for his part, will go wherever Merida commands -- within reason. He does his best, hooves dashing through the muddy landscape, on his way to unknown doom. His bravery lasts up until he sees his destination -- the ruins of Mor'du's ancient castle, leaping with shadows under the wrath of the skies. He rears up on his hind legs, and Merida screams, grasping at the reins, which thankfully are tacky despite the rain. 

 

"Enough o' this, ye great numpty!" Merida rubs Angus between the ears. "It's just the wind, whistlin' through the trees!"

 

Moaning, again, this time from the ruined courtyard. Merida swings off of Angus' back and ties his reins to a branch. "Ah'll be right back. You just stay here." 

 

Merida picks her way through the soggy thicket, following the sounds of life. She is just turning a corner when, out of nowhere, a hand clamps down over her mouth and someone -- a very solid, very _male_ someone -- pulls her backwards.

 

" _Who are you_?" A voice demands in an unfamiliar language. 

 

Merida stiffens in the man's grip and jabs her elbows back. He dances out of the way, spinning her around to face him, his hand still clamped around her wrist. She gasps at the sight of his face. He is a stranger, fierce and darkly handsome with burnished skin like a bronze coin, high cheekbones and dark hair. He has lines tattooed on his chin, and she reaches forward, almost unconsciously drawn to touch them. "Who..." she swallows. His eyes are dark with amusement, but he doesn't let her go. 

 

Instead, he laughs, saying something else in that strange language of his, and chucks her under the chin. Furious, she tries to pull free again, but he pulls her against him instead. If Merida were more worldly, she might read the intent in his eyes, but she is still yet an innocent in the ways of men and women. So when he dips his head, she doesn't pull away, and when he kisses her, her eyes widen in surprise and shock before her knees falter and she is boneless against him. He smells of the sea, he smells of the warmth of furs beside the fire, he smells of foreign lands and distant shores. 

 

His tongue brushes the seam of her lips and she opens them, her hands clutching his fur vest, his hands burying themselves in her curls. He growls deep in his throat and she shoves him away from her, her eyes sparking. 

 

"How dare ye! I'm no' some common peasant girl!" She pushes him again, and the look of shock on his face is replaced by one of amusement. He laughs, shaking his head. 

 

" _Who are you_?" This time, he asks in the trader's language, a dialect Merida knows a little of. " _First kiss, I might have guessed._ " 

 

Merida brushes her hands down her skirts, feeling her cheeks aflame. She cannot look at him. "I..." she hears her mother's warnings in her head, and she flicks her eyes up at him. "I'm a servin' maid tae the daughter o' the High Chieftain o' Dun Broch. Ma name is, uh, Mairi." She blushes fiercely. 

 

"Pleased to meet you... Mairi." His teeth flash whitely in the gloom, and he looks her up and down, from the tips of her fur-lined boots to the fine woollen green gown, entirely too fine for a maid. She is sure he's seen through her subterfuge, but soldiers on. "I am Eret, Son of Eret." 

 

"Eret," she repeats, the name strange and unwieldy in her mouth. "Have ye come for the Games, then?" She can't believe she's asked such a stupid question. Any fool can see that this broad-shouldered, bronze-skinned man is no native to Alba. His dark eyes are on her mouth. He crosses his arms. 

 

"Games? No, I am not. Do you mean _Nalukataq_?Unless they're games like the blanket toss and the bola throw... Although I was always the fastest of the reindeer racers in our village." 

 

"Rain... Deer? What is a Rain Deer?" Merida is lost. "What is a bola? What is –" she stumbles over the unfamiliar word. “ _Nah-loo_...?”

 

"Never you mind, beauty." He smiles lazily, and turns to go. 

 

"Wait!" Merida lays a hand on his arm. "I heard a scream." 

 

"A...?" Eret's brow furrows, then smooths out. "Oh." He seems about to continue walking away, but turns back. "Tell me, Mairi, have you ever seen a dragon around these parts?" 

 

 _Dreugan_. Merida thinks of the serpentine form in the clouds, and shudders in horror.

 

Eret smiles. "So you _have_ seen it." 

 

She nods. "Why?"

 

Eret runs a hand over his chin. "Just wondering. Perhaps, Mairi-Who-Is-A-Serving-Maid, you could tell me a little of the dragons of Alba." He offers her his arm. 

 

"Oh, but I... I can't tarry tae long. My --" she swallows. She almost said 'mother'. "My lady will be waiting for me tae return." She pulls her herb pouch from her belt. "I was gatherin' herbs on the moor." 

 

"Mmm," Eret says, thinking. "Let me just show you what I have. I promise it won't take but a moment." 

 

Merida puts her hand on his arm, cautious. She can't say how or why she does it, but she feels she can trust him. Or maybe it's just that she wants to be kissed again, to feel his stubble against her skin, his arms around her, pulling her close. To smell the ocean on his skin and taste the languages of the world upon his lips. Or is it that she can be a simple girl right now, no expectations? Whatever it is, she is wants it.

 

* * *

 

 

Eret studies the girl as she studies the dragon trap from all angles. If she's a serving maid, then he's a bigger fool than Drago Bludvist, for letting him take off on a solo mission to Alba. At least, it's a solo mission for now. He rakes a hand over his head.  This was... She is... unexpected. A complication. _But not a terrible one,_ his brain whispers. _She works in the castle. She can help with_... he shuts that line of thought down as she turns to smile at him, the sun breaking through the clouds and lighting her wild curls up like fire. 

 

"What do you think?" Eret asks. He is inordinately proud of his trap, but he finds himself oddly curious to hear her opinion. 

 

"It's..." she pauses, showing her teeth. "To be honest, I've never seen anythin' like it before. We don't capture dragons, we just kill them." A shadow passes over her eyes. "When I was a girl, a man brought a dead thing on his ship. Bigger than a longboat it was, with scales like the rainbow. He said that one sip of its blood would turn a man to a raging beast in battle, an' the man would _become_..." The breeze lifts her hair and she laughs, pushing it back from her eyes. "But that's silly, isn't it? A man, becoming a beast..." she shudders, as though remembering something terrible. "Och, is that the time?" She looks towards the sun, which is beginning it's slow descent toward the horizon. "I have tae go." 

 

"Wait." He surprises himself by the speed in which he catches her in his arms. "If I did decide to come to these... Games... How will I find the keep?" 

 

She seems about to say something else, and then her face is split by an effusive grin. "It's due south o' here, as the crow flies. Ye can't miss it. Dun Broch. Where the loch meets the sea." 

 

He's going to regret this later, but he pulls her pliant form against his, and kisses her deeply. She makes a little moan in her throat, and he pulls back, smoothing his thumb across her lips. Her eyes are alight with wonder. "I'll be here, if you can get away, Mairi. We will meet again."

 

And he wonders why he ever made such a promise, but he turns back to his work and goes down the hillside to the pen where he keeps the bait, and sticks his knife into the creature there, to stop its unearthly keening. 

 

 

* * *

 

 **A/N** : I tried to update from my phone and apparently that's not a good idea. The name “Mairi” is sometimes pronounced “Mary”.

 

So, I am really unfamiliar with Greenlandic culture and I HC Eret to be Inuit Greenlandic or Inupiat. Therefore I decided to use the culture I am passingly familiar with, which is Northern Alaskan Inupiat. Please tell me if you think im being culturally insensitive...I don't mean to. Since these movies are “historical fantasy”, and northern tribes share some similarities, I borrowed Nalukataq in honor of the World Eskimo Indian Olympics.

 

Nalukataq is a festival celebrating the whale harvest. The “Games” Eret is thinking of would be similar to the ones that happened during native Inupiat or Inuit festivals.

 

From Wikipedia, “The blanket, mapkuq,[8] may be made from several walrus or bearded seal, ugruk, skins, or canvas, and sewn together in a circle or square. Outdoors a rope extends from each corner, and is pulled tightly between four wooden beams, formerly three whale bones, using block and tackle. This raises the blanket to about waist height. With or without the beams, men and women, naluaqtit ('pullers'.[12] "the springs of a centuries-old trampoline."[13]), circle the blanket and hold rope woven around the edges, and rhythmically pull out on the blanket to throw the blanket dancer, nalukataqtuaq,[8] in the air.[14] "As effective as a trampoline," heights of twenty feet/six meters are estimated,[12][15] and heights of 40 feet are considered possible.[13] The minimum goal is to land back on one's feet, next to do this as many times as possible,[16] and advanced tricks include kicks and flips.[17]”

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Untie the Wind - pt 2

“Merida! Pay attention! I swear, you've got your head in the clouds today!" Queen Eleanor jostles Merida by the elbow. They are sitting to dinner at the high table, surrounded by very drunk men. In fact, they wouldn't be there at all, but for Lord MacIntosh insisting he had a special gift to share with the High King.

 

Merida's thoughts are elsewhere, it's true: all she can think of is the marked man. _Eret, Son of Eret._ _Nalukataq_ _. Will he come to the Games?_ "What is a Rain Deer?" she asks suddenly, startling Lord MacGuffin in the middle of his diatribe regarding the Northmen.

 

"That daughter o' yers needs to learn her place, Fergus!" MacGuffin says, shooting her a disapproving glare. Next to him, his son Alec mouths an apology.

 

"Weel, I think she's verra clever!" Wee Eilidh pipes up, earning her a glare from her own father. She beams, playing with the end of her long black plait. "What _is_ a Rain Deer?"

 

"I believe it is a deer from the far northern lands," Eleanor interjects smoothly. "Fergus, will ye be a dear an' pass me some venison? Your son is starving."

 

The look of love that passes between her parents warms Merida right down to her bones, even if the way that Fergus rests his hand on her mother's belly does embarrass her somewhat. To think that at their great age, her parents are still doing _that_. She touches her lips, her mind going unbidden again to the kiss of the marked man.

 

"What are _you_ smilin' about, Princess Merida?" Drustan MacIntosh has been seated next to her, not an accidental arrangement if Merida knows anything about court politics. His father has a gift for her father, ergo, the young laird gets to sit next to the princess.

 

"It must be somethin' special," she replies without thinking.

 

"What's that?" Drustan replies in an undertone.

 

"Yer sitting next tae me because of the gift yer father brought tae mine." She shrugs, mopping up some gravy with her bread. "That's all."

 

"And this is a surprise?" he snorts. "Yer naïveté in matters o' state couldnae be more obvious wi' that statement, Princess."

 

"Oh, an' yours are any better, Drustan MacIntosh?" Merida retorts in a low voice. "Why don't ye make yersel' useful an' tell me what's so special about this 'gift'?"

 

Drustan shoots her an oddly thoughtful look. In the past few years, the two of them have gotten to know each other better. He is no longer just a man who only has his looks going for him, just as Bran Dingwall is no longer seen as a fool. Alec MacGuffin, now... he is still nearly unintelligible in Doric, but he raises his brows at them from across the table.

 

"Aye, Drustan, I'm fair curious mesel'," Wee Dingwall interjects from Drustan's other side. "I've got ma own suspicions, but I'd like tae know if they're correct."

 

Drustan takes a long draught of ale, wiping his mouth with his plaid. "It's better if I show ye. Think ye can get out of here an' meet me by the dungeons in twenty minutes?" He raises his brows at the other young lairds. "It might cause some talk if it's just you an' I that go missin', but there's safety in numbers, ye ken?"

 

"I can do it in _five_ ," Merida boasts, though she isn't sure if she should be warmed or chilled by the knowledge that Drustan doesn't want to be caught alone with her -- a swift marriage is not to her liking, especially with an unpredictable Pict like Drustan MacIntosh. Even now she isn't so sure that one of the young lairds won't carry her off along with the cattle when the Games have done. But if it were Eret who carried her off, well...

 

"Aye, I'm in." Wee Dingwall -- Bran, he's given her leave to call him Bran now (like a crafty raven, a trickster he is, and she's not above mistrusting the way he tried to mislead her the first time they met) -- sets down his ale. "Wheesht, yer ladyship, there's only sae much drinkin' a man can take." He leans back on the bench, leveling a wink at her.

 

"(Och, don't listen tae him, Princess, he holds his own!)" Normally taciturn at the best of time, Alec McGuffin raises his glass to Bran.

 

The conversation between her father and the older lairds has turned to Northmen, and Merida sighs. She must, for appearance's sake, pretend to be interested -- at least for a quarter hour. "I'll be there. But why the secrecy, Drustan? It's not as if --"

 

Drustan claps a hand over her mouth and leans in. "Never ye mind aboot it, Princess." With that, he stretches, and nods to the other young lairds. They all leave together, to "take the air", which is code for "take a piss", although Merida's mother would be horrified by such crass language at her table.

 

Merida turns her attention grudgingly back to the conversation at hand, though she is thirsting to discover the secret at once. Eilidh takes advantage of the young lairds' disappearance to move down the table. She is all of fourteen, but looks so terribly young, and she is swimming in her gown. _It must have been her mother's_ , Merida thinks, for it looks clumsily taken in, as though by a child's hand. It is said that of Lord Giric MacIntosh's six natural daughters, Eilidh is the only legitimate girl, and the youngest living. Merida barely remembers Lady MacIntosh, and feels all the more sorrowed for Eilidh because of it.

 

"Come here, Eilidh." She taps the spot next to her. Surely she can distract the girl before she starts to wonder where her brother has gone.

 

Eilidh twists the end of her black plait hopefully. "Princess..." she begins, but Lord MacGuffin's voice thunders down the length of the table, drowning out her words.

 

"I'll no' stand by while innocents are slaughtered!" He hits the table with his hand. "...Highness," he says, grudgingly.

 

"The Games willnae go on forever, Malcolm. Then we will take our men and roust the Northern bastards," Fergus growls. He shoots a worried look at Eleanor, whose hand is on her belly.

 

Eleanor nods, regally. "Lord Malcolm, please calm yourself. What Fergus means is that we'll send a scout. We will start the Games tomorrow, rain or no' --"

 

"It is a bad omen tae wait any longer, the gods will be displeased," Merida pipes up and then wishes she hadn't.

 

"And do ye speak fer the gods now too, ye little bletherskite?!"

 

"That's right!" Merida tosses her hair and rises, glaring defiantly at the men around her. There's not a kind eye in the entire hall. Her mother is tugging frantically at her sleeve. "It's a bad omen to ignore the will o' the gods -- remember what happened tae Mor'du!"

 

"He trusted a witch, he didnae ignore the will o' the gods," Lord MacIntosh stands up, pointing a finger in Merida's face. "If you were ma daughter, I'd take a birch tae yer back fer such a mouth ye have!"

 

"No you wouldnae!" Eilidh pipes up, then shrinks in her seat with a deep crimson blush. "Do sit down, won't ye?"

 

"I will no'!" Merida slams her cup down, glaring right back at him. "How dare ye!"

 

"Merida!" Eleanor hisses, horrified.

 

Fergus rises from his seat, pointing a finger at the door. "Out!" he thunders.

 

"It's a bad omen tae neglect the gods -- terrible things will happen!" Merida bursts out. Then she is being dragged from the hall by her mother, who doesn't stop until they are out the door. The slap echoes in the corridor, and Merida's head snaps back.

 

"Ow!" she cries, clutching her cheek. "Mother, what--"

 

"Do you want tae start another war?!" Eleanor demands. "I don't know what's gotten into ye today! You're not acting like a queen to be, but some spoilt girl, not any older than Wee Eilidh! It's no wonder --" she draws in a breath. "Please, just... Take a walk, Merida. I need tae go back inside and smooth things over."

 

"I'm fair sorry, mother." And she is. But she can't regret it. Already, her feet are moving towards the young lairds, she is itching to go, and something in Eleanor's face softens when she looks at Merida.

 

"If ye won't marry... Well, ye must at least earn the respect of the lairds, Merida. And this is not the way." Eleanor presses a quick kiss to Merida's forehead, and lets herself back in the Great Hall.

 

•••

 

"Look who decided to grace us puir lairds wi' her mighty presence." Bran can be quite sarcastic when he's a mind to, and usually it makes Merida laugh, but not tonight. "What kept ye, Meri?"

 

"Just the usual," she says with a cool laugh. "Fightin' off dragons an' showerin' the peasants wi' gold."

 

"(Och, is that all? We thought by the shoutin' that ye were about tae cause another war! Drustan was ready to head in, sword unsheathed!)” Alec winks at her. He's a big man, and she can't help but feel comforted by his solid presence. He reminds her of her father in a way, for she knows he is kind and forthright, and always says what he means -- unlike Bran Dingwall, whom people say is "away wi' the fairies", or Drustan MacIntosh, who is studying her with his arms crossed, an unreadable look on his handsome face.

 

"Aye, I think Merida can take care o' herself," he says finally. "She doesn't need any o' us tae be her sworn sword -- she's made that perfectly clear." He motions them forward. "I need yer vow that ye'll no' breathe a word tae anyone o' this." He pulls out his dirk and makes a swift cut in his palm. Drustan presents the dirk handle to Merida, raising his brows. She bites her lip. To mingle her blood with a man she's not betrothed to...

 

"When I make a vow, I keep it," she says stiffly. Then she cuts her palm. They each clasp hands. Merida wipes her palm on her dress, leaving a rust-colored streak. She shares a look with Bran and Alec. What in the world is so important about this gift?

 

But when they walk down the stinking staircase in the flickering torchlight, and Drustan leads them to the single occupied cell, Merida understands.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: No one has written what I want to read, so I figured I'd better put on my big girl boots and write the thing--plus I can't get it out of my head. I'm a huge history geek, so the little research I've done thus far on both settings has pleased me enormously with the synchronicity. This is NOT a RotBTD fic, however. 
> 
> The title of Act I, "Kith and Kin", means ancestral lands and tribe. In early medieval Skotland (or Alba, as it was known then), Picts lived in small tribes made up of famililes belonging to a single clan, presided over by a high chieftain. These clans were known as "kin"; whereas in the Nordic countries, your tribe was known as your "kindred". 
> 
> This series meant to become very dark as it progresses through its three acts: "Kith & Kin", "Rune", and "Wasteland". 
> 
> the usual disclaimer goes here


End file.
